


tea, cups and rum.

by duchessofdublin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warnings Within
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessofdublin/pseuds/duchessofdublin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac hates thunderstorms, coffee, the heat and Scott’s eyes. </p><p>(That’s all a lie.)</p><p>He falls in love with all of them. Repeatedly, and quickly, and hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tea, cups and rum.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifreakinghatesplenda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreakinghatesplenda/gifts).



> All warnings below. Contain spoilers for recent episodes of S3. 
> 
> [ Tumblr](https://blibobaggins.tumblr.com) |[ Beta](https://haletothealpha.tumblr.com) | [ Prompt ](http://media.tumblr.com/62f7ee3876874e241da637b7ea9a211f/tumblr_inline_mr6bpuw6HD1qz4rgp.jpg) | [ Present Receiver](https://camdenlahey.tumblr.com)

**i.**

The wind is howling and the rain is pelting against the window.

The air is crackled with the cold. Isaac can feel it in his toes, burrowed under a comforter.

His hands, sometimes, still seek out his mom, his fingers curling around dented pillows and warm spots that he could curl up in and smell lavender and laundry powder and oranges. He would take deep breathes and imagine she was beside him, her hands in his hair, fingers combing out knots, and lips pressed to his temple, so softly, as she hummed a lullaby that he would fall asleep to, being watched over, being safe.

Her hands were always covered in dusted chalk and ink imbedded under her nails. They traced patterns into his upper arms when he curled around her and burrowed his nose in her stomach. Camden would lie beside them, though he claimed he didn’t for he was too old to be doing that kind of stuff, spread eagled with the silence comfortable and calm.

It was always sunny on Sunday mornings when she would water the plants, her hands wrapped in bright pink rubber gloves and her hair bunched on the top of her head. Isaac would watch her with lidded eyes as she rubbed sleep out of her own eyes with the corner of her wrist. Her teeth were crooked and she still smiled so wide, her cheeks would dimple and her gums would show.

Isaac remembers laughing religiously, eating peanut and banana sandwiches, lying with Camden watching Sunday cartoons as his mom got ready for church. She would wear the prettiest pearls that she got off Grandpa for her sixteenth birthday that she would only wear to special occasions, though not to Aunty Marion’s wedding when she hitched married to a French man that she’s only know for two weeks. Isaac met him once and he gave him minted mouse sweets so Isaac thought he was good enough but Aunty Marion and mom shouted at each other for _days_. They all had to go to grandma and grandpa’s house and stand in stuffy little suits while Aunty Marion babbled and bubbled in a cheap white dress holding hands with the French man.

Mom didn’t wear her pearls that day and dad didn’t go at all.

She would wear red lipstick that curved around her lips that they looked cartooned. Isaac would sometimes sit beside her as she applied and she did it so elegantly that Isaac was envious.

She even applied it on him before. It was a secret they never told anyone though his mom took a photo with an old, battered Polaroid camera.

She winked at him and said she needed it for future blackmail. Isaac left a sticky, red kiss mark on her cheek, her laughter was loud. She would wear a different hat every Sunday. Isaac doesn’t think he’s ever seen her wear the same one twice.

The ladies of the church used to compete with each other over their outfits though it was never spoken. They would show up in big hats and large frocks and their children cleaned and pressed and gelled. They would also bake the most delicious cakes, muffins, flapjacks that Isaac has ever tasted.

Isaac’s mom would carry her made dish, she made the night before, on her lap covered in foil as her gloved hands held it in place while Isaac’s dad drove with the wheels screeching.

His mom would wait until almost all the ladies had gathered, their own dishes and cups and saucers clutched in their hands, and she would place hers last on the table that was under a opened white tent.

All the women would wait with bathed breath as she would take off the foil then all whisper among themselves when she did. Isaac’s mom was the best baker and cook in all of Beacon Hills. The priest always took the leftovers of his mom’s bake home with him so all the ladies knew whose dish was best that week.

After mass, when the group had all said their prayers and the songs had been sung and all the hands been shook and cheeks been kissed, his dad would give him and Camden a dollar between them to go buy as much cakes as they wished.

Isaac would always pick out the prettiest or the nicest and Camden would follow his lead, his eyes on the pretty, young girl who sat three pews ahead of them in church.

She had long, black pigtails that she sometimes swirled up onto her head like Princess Leila so all the boys in church called her Princess Emily when she did this and she would blush and act coy. All the boys fancied her. Camden was one of many and she only held her daddy’s hand and refused to talk to boys for she’s _saving herself_. Isaac didn’t know at the time what she meant by saving herself but he once suggested Superman could help her out. She was five years older than him, like Camden, and called him _cute_ when he told her this.

He blushed so hard he could feel the heat radiate from his cheeks.

Isaac would buy as much banana bread as he took fit into his suede church jacket pockets. Camden, sometimes, bought a candy apple and he would eventually share it with Isaac if he stared long and hard enough.

(It worked every time.)

Isaac’s dad built planes sometimes with small, tiny features and he stuck them into large glass bottles. His mom would attach strong string to the top and hang them in the kitchen. The morning sun would light them up like a sunset and the breeze would sway them in the air almost like waves on sea.

His mom bought him a sailor hat before, with a small eye patch when she went shopping down at the pier for that evening’s supper. Isaac would try stand on the hand built table and shout orders to his fellow sailors. Sir Captain Isaac Lahey, it had a nice ring to it.

Camden usually teased him and grabbed his legs and shook him till Isaac toppled over, his shouts then his laughter bouncing off the walls when Camden tickled him till he _screamed_ mercy.

His mom cooked on an old, rusting range oven that his father had built into the kitchen with the curve of the counters tall enough that Isaac could sit up there and watch her cook their supper for that night.

She would flit around the kitchen so effortlessly, she wore a pink and yellow polka dotted apron and her oven gloves were white with pink ruffling at the edge.

He never saw somebody look so pretty while cooking a three piece course for the neighbouring family, the priest and their own five person family.

She was amazing. She was his _mom_.

Thunderstorms were the worst. He used to cry if he heard the crack and the rumble before the skies opened up and the rain would crash against his closed and locked window. Camden used to share a room with him, a bunk bed with him on the top for he was older and Isaac couldn’t reach the floor with his short legs. Camden would climb down and snuggle in beside him and Isaac would allow him to be the older brother for them moments, their hands clutched and their foreheads pressed together.

Then Camden got to old, he became a _teenager_ , and moved into his own room, their dad’s old converted office/junk room. Isaac was then left to face the thunderstorms alone.

He guessed his cries reached his mom for she would appear in his doorway, her hair in curlers and her eye mask pushed up her forehead. She would smile, fondly, her cheeks dimpling and asked “What’s wrong, dumpling?”

“I don’t like thunde’ storms, mommy.” He sniffled. She would tut and cross to him, her bum denting the bed.

She would press a hand to his forehead then his cheek. “I guess you don’t. Do you want me to stay with you till they stop?”

He would nod hurriedly, wiping his snotty nose on his pyjama top. She would make him scot over and wrap around his shoulder, pulling him closer to him. He would snuggle down beside her, his nose against her throat and he could hear her steady heartbeat against his ear.

“You’ll be quite alright in the morning, my darling.” She whispered, kissing his temple. He would close his eyes and fall effortlessly into a dream. Her hums alight in them.

Now, he’s cold and there are no hums. Just snores from Derek in his room and the fitful tossing of Cora in hers.

Isaac punches his pillow, hunching his shoulder to try getting more comfortable.

_Crack._

Isaac flinches.

He tries to sleep.

**ii.**

Isaac didn’t drink coffee. He hated the taste. It was too bitter and numbed his tongue, his teeth ached and his breath smelled. He hated everything about it.

Scott drank it after his runs.

He would get up at the crack of dawn and throw on a pair of tattered trainers and sling on a pair of shorts and take off running. Allison used to go running, Isaac learned, so Scott now goes running.

After an hour and a bit Scott will arrive home shirtless and sticky. Sweat sliding down his back between his dimples on his lower back and across his forehead. He would grin at Isaac would sat huddled at the kitchen table peeling an orange, and drink straight from the filtering machine. He would only do this if his mom wasn’t home or else she’ll loudly complain of _germs_ and _disgusting habits_ but she’ll be smiling while Scott sheepishly wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

Scott could drink his coffee black. No sugar, no milk and no cream.

Isaac grimaces just thinking about it.

He always offers it to Isaac, one cheek full of coffee and tea biscuit in one hand and coffee mug in another. Isaac shakes his head, his stomach tight with _something_.

Scott would shrug as in _suit yourself, buddy but I ain’t offering again_ but he will.

Every morning.

He’ll offer the mug when the sun is just brightening and the colours of orange and yellow blend into pinks and violets. When he stands in nothing but low slung grey shorts that are darkening with sweat. When the kitchen smells of vanilla, orange peels and the clinging smell of kitchen cleaner, Scott will sit on a creaking wooden chair and stare out the window and Isaac will fold his arms and rest his head on them.

His eyes never leave Scott, watches his throat work; his Adam apple bopping and his jaw tightening.

Isaac could close his eyes and imagine that they wouldn’t have to go to school and wouldn’t have to deal with everybody relying on them to solve all the problems. He wouldn’t have to deal with anything. Isaac wasn’t even seventeen years old yet. He was nothing but a boy.

He was an orphan.

He wasn’t alone though. Scott bit into a biscuit, crumb sticking to his lower lip and Isaac fights the urge to wipe it away, his fingers twitch.

“Do you ever dream of running away?”

Scott turns to him, his hair floppy on his forehead. “Would you?”

Isaac gazes out the window. “Yes.” His voice doesn’t waver. He can feel Scott’s eyes on him. He swallows.

“I guess I would too.”

It shocks Isaac, but doesn’t. He doesn’t turn to look at him. “We could leave together.”

Scott laughs, its light and scratching. “The runaway children.”

“We’d be free.”

“Would we?” Scott’s eyes are heavy on the side of his face. The atmosphere shifts.

“I dunno,” He looks at Scott, his eyes searching his face. It’s littered with light freckles, his face is tan and his hair is dark. He’s wild. He’s nothing like Isaac has ever experienced. “We should find out though.”

“We should.” Scott nods slightly as if he needs more agreement. Isaac throat feels tight looking at him.

“We’ll make plans tonight.” Isaac says.

Scott smiles. It’s tight round the corners. It’s a wishful thought.

They’re not going anywhere.

“I’ll get a map.” Scott says. He turns to look out the window, the mug resting on his bare thigh. It must be luke warm at this point. Isaac picks at the orange peels and hums.

God, Isaac hates coffee.

Scott takes a mouthful. The crumb is still on the corner of his lip.

(He’s lying. He doesn’t hate coffee)

**iii.**

Camden got a girl pregnant at fifteen. Isaac had never seen his dad react like that before.

They were eating dinner. It was a Wednesday evening and it was chilly. Isaac still had on his school uniform, his tie taken off and his sleeves pushed up. His mom had tutted over his hair and pushed it off his forehead. She made a comment about needing to cut it soon herself. Isaac tried to dodge her hand, shoving peas into his mouth.

Isaac dad made a remark, his mom laughed at it, her eyes wrinkling.

Then Camden blurted it out.

The silence was unbearable. Their mom’s fork clanged against her plate, one small hand hovering over her open mouth. Isaac’s eyes were wide. He heard of people having children outside of marriage but it wasn’t spoken of willingly. It wasn’t common at all in his area. It was taboo.

Isaac’s father rose to his feet. His back was hunched and his glasses were slipping down his nose. Camden was pale.

Isaac was frightened.

“Pardon, son, what did you just say?” His father’s voice was hard and it’s chilling how fast Camden’s face falls and locks.

“Emily – she is… Emily’s-“

“She’s pregnant.” His father’s voice was mocking. He laughed but it’s not in humour.

Camden nodded quickly; his hands were clenched around his own fork and knife. Their father heaved a sigh and his shoulders fell forward.

He straightened suddenly. “Come with me, Camden.”

Isaac’s mom eyes widened then. Isaac doesn’t know what for. She reached for his father’s arm. He glared at her, her own eyes filling with tears. “Don’t…” She whispered. Isaac father’s ignored her.

“Come, Camden.” He left with the kitchen door banging open. Camden stood shakily, his lower lip trembling. Isaac had a sickening feeling low in his stomach.

“What are they-“Isaac tried to ask his mother but she shushed him, one hand cupping the back of his head. She shook her head, her beautiful makeup ruined.

Isaac started to cry because he was frightened.

His brother started to scream.

The thudding down in the basement made Isaac sob harder. Isaac’s mother just pushed him closer to her, her hands trembling and her voice shaken as she whispered nothings into his hair.

Isaac didn’t understand.

Isaac’s mother brought him to bed, curling herself around him, her long legs warm against his back. He didn’t hear Camden go to bed, none of his usually thumping around in his room with flicking his lights on or rummaging in his drawers. Isaac’s mother didn’t change into her bed clothes. She didn’t leave his side.

Isaac woke and sat across from Camden who refused to answer any questions. His lip busted and blooming bruises littering his cheek and neck and probably lower. Isaac shut up when his father walked in.

His father clasped his hand on Camden’s shoulder, who flinched and tried to eat his cornflakes.

“We learned our lesson, didn’t we, son?”

“Yes, sir.” Camden mumbled.

Their father stared at Isaac and felt his skin tighten. His mother pressed her hand to his under the table; her manicure nails digging into his skin.

She smiled warmly at their father.

Every bit of it was false.

Isaac ate his cornflakes.

**iv.**

During the summers they visited their grandparents. Father’s parents lived all the way over in Austria so they rarely saw them but mostly they travelled to Mississippi where their mother’s parents lived along with her brothers and sisters.

 They were a big family that all stayed in the same area, Isaac’s mother was the first to move from home.

It took an average of eleven hours to reach where the house was painted yellow with perfect fencing and perfect grass that was probably measured to the right length on every corner.

The women there were loud and had bright coloured dresses and white smiles and the men were gelled and suited and they reeked of sprays that made Isaac gag if he ever got too close to them.

The children were all well behaved and if said otherwise they were hit. The neighbourhood was small and the local dogs with their perfect groomed tails and gleaming collars strutted down the sidewalks. Isaac didn’t feel part of the neighbourhood. He didn’t feel like he belonged with his dirty fingernails and his crooked teeth and wild, curly hair that sometimes had to be pulled up in a ponytail for it grew too long.

Camden wasn’t allowed come the summer after he told father. He had to stay at Emily’s house where she was almost ready to give birth.

Isaac didn’t see her outside the supermarkets the few times he spotted her while with his mom. She waddled and her t-shirt stretched over her stomach as one hand cupped underneath it. She must have seen him for she stilled and she raised one hand as though to wave. Isaac’s mom hand came down on his shoulder making him jump and Emily flee.

Emily wasn’t allowed to Isaac’s home.

Camden was kicked out. He pleaded with father till his eyes were swollen and his throat sore but their father wouldn’t budge. He went to live with Emily.

(Their mother still fed him though. Isaac seen her pack sandwiches with pickled crisps and chocolate candy bars and place them in a lunch bag she placed behind the post-box and between the two walls in their front garden. Camden then came between schools hours. Isaac would check and see empty foils and ripped wrappers.)

He hadn’t seen Camden in seven months.

The summer wasn’t the same without him.

Isaac allowed his grandma to fuss over him fixing his clothes and buying him matching outfits with the snotty brats who lived next door and combed his hair to try getting some sort of order into it. He allowed her to try fatting him up with extra frosting cupcakes and raisin bread and homemade scones with clotted cream and handpicked cherries from the local orchard and ice creams with mint chips and flakes of chocolate.

He allowed for his grandpa to push him on the tire swing and toss him upside down, screaming, into the lake and to push him around on the trampoline on the far back field that all the local children shared.

He allowed his mother to bring him to church and teach me all the choir music and to play hopscotch with him until the rain came and sent her squealing inside with her cardigan over her hair.

He allowed his father to pat his head and brush his knuckles against his back and sling him up on his shoulders so he could see the bird nesting in the big oak tree in the neighbouring house.

He allowed all this, but it wasn’t the same without Camden.

When Isaac returned home that summer they got a letter in the post.

Isaac was an uncle.

Her name was Maame. She was tiny and ugly, her fist curled around Isaac’s finger and she looked at him with wonder and he stared at her with awe. She was swaddled in yellow blankets and her cap was too big for her tiny head. Isaac laid his head against the Moses basket. She hadn’t made any noises, just stared at him, her small pink mouth wide and her green eyes glassy. Isaac smiled at her and saw her mouth twitch trying to imitate it. He let out a cuff of laughter and her little legs kicked out. Her grip was so tight on his finger.

He was her godfather. He bought her a silver rattle he saw down in the village window. He saw it twinkle and thought of her.

He only saw her three times; the time in the crib, at her christening and at her funeral.

She died of cot death.

Camden moved back in eighteen months after he left.

**v.**

Scott was sitting on the edge of his bed. Isaac didn’t dare to move.

“What are doing?”

Scott shrugs, his shoulders twisting under his bed shirt.

Isaac’s feet feel restless but he ignores the urge to twitch.

“I think the full moon’s coming up.” Scott says, his fingers tapping on Isaac’s linen sheets.

Isaac glances to the window, it’s cracked open a smidgen and the breeze is nice on his sweating face. “I guess it will be.”

There’s an awkward silence.

Isaac has to ask. “Why are you in my room?” He whispers.

The silence doesn’t completely break. Scott stands, his bare feet digging into the carpet. He moves around and stands under the moonlight from the window. There’s a pile of schoolbooks near his knees and Isaac’s dirty jumpers thrown beside him. Isaac doesn’t feel the need to clean.

“When you running away?”

Isaac’s confused.

Scott glances over his shoulder, his mouth slightly covered. “Remember you said you wanted to run away.”

Isaac lips twist. “I was thinking of leaving on a Tuesday.”

“A Tuesday.” Scott says it like it’s a joke. Isaac tries to fight down on a grin, his lip between his teeth.

“Yeah, it’s a good day. Close enough to Monday that’s you’re not in the happiest mood but awake and not the mid-week so you’re neither looking forward nor backwards and not at the weekend so not lazy or neglecting homework.” Isaac says his gaze on Scott’s shoulders.

Scott grins. “Tuesday it is then. “

“Pinky promise?” Isaac wants to smack himself, but Scott nods like it’s a serious agreement.

Isaac’s heart swells.

“Pinky promise.” Scott says his voice shush. Isaac squeezes his legs together, his neck flushing.

Scott’s eyes are brown. They’re not the colour of melting chocolate that crumbles in your mouth or the colour of the mahogany that aligns in the table setting.

They’re the colour of bark of the tree that sits under Isaac window that he sometimes climbs out onto at night. They’re the colour of the dirt that Scott kicks under his legs when he swings on the children swing late in the evening when they feel safe and chilly, fingers numb, clutching at the metal chains.

They’re the colour of the muck that Scott fell in when chasing Stiles in a game of tag on a lazy Saturday evening. They’re the colour of nature that makes Isaac breath in deeply and feel his core shift in something that _belongs._ They’re the colour of him, of home, of everything that Isaac needs.

Isaac presses his cheek to his pillow. Scott sits on the ground beside his bed and rests his head on the dented mattress, his eyes are open and they’re searching.

“What are you thinking?” Scott asks.

“Your eyes are brown.” Isaac answers, his hand hanging over the edge of the bed.

Scott smiles like it’s a secret.

Scott fingertips touch briefly to his then away. Isaac’s fingertips burn.

Isaac smiles, his cheeks dimpling. Scott traces them lightly with his thumb.

“Your eyes are grey.”

Isaac stares at him, his mind overworking and his heart beating too hard.

(It’s a secret.)

**vi.**

Camden died in war when Isaac was fourteen. His body was buried six weeks after his death. Emily showed up. They were to be married. She was pregnant again. Her face was swollen and her eyes were red rimmed. Isaac couldn’t look at her long before bile began to rise in his throat.

Their mother died when Isaac was fifteen. She died of alcohol poisoning. She wasn’t old but she looked it, with her golden grey hair twisted in a hanging bun and her face wrinkled and dressed in a bathrobe and slippers that Camden got her as a gift for one mother’s day. Isaac found her in their main bathroom with her bottle broken against the tiles and her face was blue around the edges and Isaac fell to his knees sobbing his hands buried in her still warm pyjamas top. He cried till his father came home from his work shift and found them. He coldly lifted Isaac up and dragged him kicking and screaming to his room and locked the door with a final click and called the ambulance.

Isaac sat on his bed, comforter over his legs and his throat hoarse as he heard the paramedics bring his mother out.

His father had unlocked the door and then stayed in his room till the next morning to go to work.

They had a funeral. It was April where the flowers were blossoming and they were dressed lightly. He thought of the times she used to make lemon cake with butterflies decorating the topping. She always got praise for it at church.

They got her headstone made from marble and she had plotted flowers littering the edges.

Isaac was sixteen when he got a job at the graveyard. Camden and his mom were buried beside each other. He could sit between them and tell them stories and they would listen to him as he rambled and cried and he would hug each stone head before dusting himself off and began to work.

He got the job to dodge his father’s fists and kicks and screaming and banging on his door late at night with alcohol, so much like his wife, on his breath.

He enjoyed the graveyard.

Then he fell into one of the open graves.

**vii.**

Isaac finds a small box under his bed. It’s full of photos, empty candy wrappers, a picture frame, a dirty pair of trainers around the size of a child’s and a broken flash torch.

He lays it out on his bed, each photo so carefully handled and all other items staying in the box.

There’s a photo of Scott when he’s only two in the bathtub with a pair of feminine hands keeping him steady, he’s grinning at the camera all gums and one tooth.

There’s one of him at a birthday party with Melissa holding a cake high above the crowd of children’s heads. He almost doesn’t recognise Stiles with his long hair and toothy grin at the camera. He’s holding onto Scott with one hand, his little tubby fingers wrapped his wrist and gesturing to the camera holder.

 Scott’s eyes are only on the cake.

There’s one of him presumably at his first day of school clutching a small lunchbox and his hair combed to the side. He’s all neat and put together expect for his dirty knees that are exposed through his shorts. He’s beaming at the camera, all teeth and arched neck.

Isaac smiles.

There’s several more of Melissa at Christmas time with her feet up and tiredness etched in her face.

There’s one of Stiles upside down from a tree, his hair long and swaying.

One of Scott’s dad with his back to the camera, he’s wearing overalls and there’s grease on his elbows. He’s tall and broad with tan skin and a hard jaw. He’s glancing over his shoulder at the camera. He has Scott’s eyes.

There’s smudges around the edges; signs of it being handled. A lot.

There are photos Allison, where she’s grinning at Scott, her hands reaching. One of her sleeping and you can almost count her eyelashes. One photo of her laughing and the sun etching into her skin. There are photos of them in a photo booth; kissing and Scott’s eye’s flashing.

These leave a bitter taste in Isaac’s mouth.

He puts them away. Each one back in the way he took them out.

He places the box back under the old pile of socks and beside the aging comic books.

He climbs back in the bed and curls up, his long feet tucking and his face pressed to his forearms. He tries to stop the tears that burn the back of his eyelids.

He’s so stupid.

**viii.**

Scott’s eyes are drilling a hole into his head.

“What?” Isaac snaps. Scott blinks; his eyelashes brush his cheeks. Isaac hates the feeling of _want_ low in his stomach.

“Erica and Boyd are dead.”

Isaac swallows and closes his eyes. “I know.”

Scott sits beside him, his thigh pressed to Isaac’s. His shoulder knocks into his. “I wish I knew them better.”

“Don’t.” Isaac whispers.

Scott shakes his head. “I could have known them a little bit better.”

Isaac lets his thigh press against Scott’s for a little longer, the heat seeping in. “You’d have liked Erica.”

Scott’s eyes are open and Isaac bits his lip, studying him. In the end it doesn’t matter, Isaac will always tell him anyway.

“She had a wicked sense of humour. Whenever Derek left the loft she’d be like a mother hen. She bickered a lot with Boyd. She’d scream at him for hours over _pointless_ things.” He lets out a dry laugh. “She once threw a brick at his head. Boyd laughed for ages and I couldn’t hold myself up I was laughing so hard. She acted all huffy and puffy but she broke down eventually and smiled at us.”

Isaac smiles down at his clenched fists. “Boyd was so calm. It was _so_ annoying; nobody should be that Zen all the time. He was quiet too. He’d be shuffling around all day and you wouldn’t hear him at all. He adapted the best with his new senses, like, Derek couldn’t even beat him a few times. There used to lay out a wrestling mat and they just snap and growl at each other for _hours_. Erica used to roll her eyes and mutter _boys_. I would try to join in a few times but they are- were, _were_ too strong for me anyway, but Boyd, he’d let me win a few times, I’d know he was doing it but he’d be still do it and Erica would then whisper _boys_ fondly. They really loved each other, real fairytales, real true love.”

He swallows thickly and when he looks up at Scott he has this glint in his eyes.

“We were a group, Scott. Us three against everybody else.”

Scott presses his fingertips to his knee. Isaac tries not to spasm.

“They seemed nice.”

“They weren’t nice. They were cruel and pushed me around a lot like, like I was there little brother or something and they picked fights with me. Hogged all the blankets and called me names, and tried once to push me in front of a bus to see if I would heal.” He grins and it’s broken and Scott returns it.

“They were…they were my family.”

Isaac closes his eyes.

He feels a hesitate touch to his knuckles.

Breath stutters in his chest. He opens his palm and there’s fingertips sliding down his palm and between his fingers. Isaac squeezes and after a brief moment the squeeze is returned.

His breath flows and his head is dizzy.

It’s cold and Isaac’s feet are bare and he holds onto Scott’s hand tightly.

The radio plays softly in the background.

**ix.**

Scott kisses him when the room is warm and there’s sweat dripping down Isaac’s back. They’re standing awkwardly at the foot of Scott’s bed and they clang their teeth together when Scott rushes forward.

Isaac pulls back and his half smile is echoed on Scott’s face.

They kiss again and Isaac wraps his arms around Scott’s shoulders, his fingers hanging on his t-shirt and Scott’s hands grip Isaac’s hips. Isaac’s too tall and he has to slouch and their knees accidently knock together and Scott laughs into his mouth.

Isaac’s chest is tight and his toes curl in his socks and Scott’s neck is flushed.

Isaac kisses him again, and again, and again. Just to see to make sure Scott’s real, that _this_ is real.

Scott tastes of peanut butter and mint and fresh air and Isaac drinks him and kisses him deeper.

Scott pulls back and rests his forehead against Isaac’s.

He glances off to the side before landing on something. He laughs, the air is warm on Isaac’s swollen lips and he nudges his head for Isaac to look.

He’s looking at a calendar. Isaac furrows his brow. “What?”

“It’s a Tuesday.” He grins.

Isaac pauses then kisses him fiercely.

**x.**

Scott packs a bag and throws a torch his way. Isaac catches it and he stares at Scott. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” Scott doesn’t look up from where he’s rummaging in his bed side drawer.

Isaac places the torch on Scott’s bed. “Leaving where?”

Scott glances up, his hair is wild. “Leaving here.”

“No, Scott _where_ are you going?”

“I’m just leaving.”

Isaac sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “ _Where are you going_?”

“Pack your bag and you’ll find out.”

Isaac stops. Scott is now throwing pairs of boxers into the bag.

“You can’t just…we can’t-“

“We can and we are.”

“Scott, stop…just think for a moment.” He walks to Scott; he places his hands on Scott’s hunched shoulders and leans forward. “We can’t just _up_ and leave everything. We have stay here and try sort out…”

Scott’s eyes are glassy. “I need to _leave_ , Isaac. I’ve got to go.”

Isaac’s eyes search his. “I know.”

“Come with me.”

Isaac’s heart is beating too fast. “I don’t know…”

“Come with me.” Scott crowds in close, his hands possessive on his hips and with every word his lips brush Isaac’s. Isaac feels too hot for his skin. “We can run away for the day, for a Tuesday, just for a moment.”

He rests his forehead against Isaac’s collarbone. “I just need to leave for a moment, Isaac.”

Isaac’s arms wrap around Scott’s shoulders and tug him even closer, pressing himself against him, hips to hips. Isaac can hear and feel every beat of Scott’s heart. “We can leave.”

Scott raises his head and his eyes are so fucking hopeful. “We can?”

“We can.” Isaac mutters, nodding. He presses his lips to Scott’s, breathes against them. “We can.”

They pack everything and they leave.

Scott’s hand is in Isaac’s jeans pocket and his heart is in his throat, but they don’t look back.

**xi.**

They drive with the windows down and the dirt wheeling under and Isaac kicks up his bare feet on the dash and slips on his sunglasses.

He grins wickedly at Scott and Scott grins back and revs the pedal.

Isaac whoops and Scott howls.

Isaac’s laughter echoes around them, and Scott just drives faster.

The sun is setting and it’s setting from red and oranges to purples and blues and it reflects off Scott and it’s turning his skin through and he’s burning around his nose then it’s quickly healing and Isaac can’t look away.

Scott glances at him but quickly turns his focus back to the road. “What are you looking at?”

Isaac shifts till he can curl his legs onto the leather seat and faces Scott. He grins into the headrest.  “You.”

“Oh yeah?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Isaac cuffs a laugh. “Don’t get a big head. You’re only the thing to see in this big waste land anyway.”

“Mmmhmm, I’m sure.” Scott’s eyes flick over to him and they’re glinting wickedly.

Isaac hides his grin, pushing a palm over his mouth.

Scott outwardly laughs.

There’s a heat blooming in his stomach.

 _I love you_ , Isaac thinks. He feels this deep in stomach and in his toes and his heart jumps in agreement.

He reaches out and presses his hand to Scott’s side. One of Scott’s hands leaves the wheel to intertwine their fingers. Isaac hums with content.

He turns up the radio. It’s something indie and old and something that makes Scott smile sadly.

Scott’s thumb strokes over Isaac’s knuckles and Isaac feels calm and content and he could take on the world with the silence and sun  that shines through the window making them sweat and the packet of hard candy that sits on the bottom on Isaac’s seat and Scott holding his hand so tightly.

Heat rises to Isaac’s cheeks and he grins, cheeks dimpling.

They drive on.

**xii.**

Isaac lost his virginity to a girl who had crazy blonde hair and golden hoop earrings and a curling tongue but he can’t remember her face or her voice. He just remembers tight heat and a ripping pleasure.

Scott lies beside him.

They’re on the dusted floor of the forgotten desert and they’ve a blanket underneath them and the sun beating down on them. There’s sweat trailing down Scott’s forehead and temples but with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed; he doesn’t seem to mind.

Isaac curls his body to fit Scott’s side.

He drums his fingers against the rug. He kisses Scott’s neck.

Scott’s eyes open and they’re just so brown and they’re staring back at Isaac and somehow Isaac’s on his back and arching, his fingers scrabbling, clutching.

They’re frantically removing clothing and Scott’s licking his fingers and Isaac can’t get enough air in his lungs and he’s gasping and whimpering.

“Are you sure?” Scott asks. Of course he does, sweet, sweet Scott. Isaac grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss, their tongues battling and he’s nodding and he’s shaking.

There’s a burn and Isaac’s legs are wrapped around Scott’s back and Scott’s watching his face, his eyes scanning and searching. He must find what he’s looking for as he leans forward and kisses him, almost chastely. Isaac gasps loudly.

Then Scott’s in him and Isaac’s eyes burn and his legs still and his mouth is obscenely wide. Scott’s head is burrowed in his neck and he’s muttering.

“You’re okay…you’re okay…”

Isaac nods, his lips swollen. He tilts his hips to get Scott deeper and closer and he moans; his neck arching.

The burn shifts and Isaac needs the _pleasure and pain_ that is burying itself in his stomach and soul and core and he can’t take it anymore and twists them.

Scott lands with a gust of breath and Isaac staring down at him, eyes blown, hands braced on his chest and naked from waist down and so, so intimately connected.

He grinds down and Scott moans, his eye rolling and Isaac needs to hear and see that again and again.

Scott’s fingers are thick and gripping from where they clutch at his hips. His hips are so bony and he’s too pale, but Scott, sweet, sweet, Scott looks at him with this blown and wide pupils.

 He seems dazed and Isaac feels beautiful with his hair sticking to his forehead and his t-shirt hanging over his bony, bony shoulder.

He can’t fight the moan that breaks out of his throat with Scoot braces his feet on the dusty ground and squeezes his hands like a warning, like a meaning and thrusts up in quick session.

Isaac remembers coming with Scott’s name on his lips and Scott gripping his hips with tight, tight hands and Isaac falls forward, unable to hold himself and Scott catches him, his arms wrapping around his waist.

Isaac tucks his head under Scott’s chin.

Scott presses a kiss to Isaac temple and Isaac kisses his collarbone.

There’s a stone digging into his side and a lizard crawling near Scott’s leg but neither of them move.

Isaac can’t remember the girl who took his virginity’s hair colour.

**xiii.**

They arrive home and nobody noticed they left and Scott goes to meet up with Stiles.

Isaac sighs and his bones hurt. He drags himself to his bedroom and realises Scott’s room has become his bed in that last few months.

He grins to himself; they’re _something_ to each other now. (They always were.)

He lies down, burying himself under the covers. The heat of the desert still clinging to his skin and his fingers feel funny as if they were sun burnt. He can smell Scott. He smells of coconut and dust and wood and coffee and just a hint of mushroom and Isaac closes his eyes and inhales.

 It comforts him, his chest expanding and deflating with Scott wrapping himself around his lungs and heart and Isaac can’t fight the funny feeling in his stomach.

_I love you._

He doesn’t realise he fell asleep until he feels a hand brushing through his hair and before the room and light kicks in and realises it’s Scott, he thinks for one brief, brief moment it’s his mom with her hums and golden hair but then Scott whispers “Isaac.” And it breaks and Isaac okay with it.

He goes to turn around from where he’s lying on his stomach, a trailing of drool connecting him to the pillow, but Scott crawls above him, cocooning him. He braces his hands either side of Isaac’s head and buries his head into neck, his nose tickling and his breathes uneven.

Isaac hears his heart starting to steady and his weight becoming heavy and relaxing.

He takes a deep breath inhaling coffee and so much more. He pulls one of Scott’s arms from beside his head to between his two arms and hugs it close to his chest.

Scott tightens his grip for a moment then relaxing. It was quiet, just their breath and the moonlight creeping in between the swaying curtains.

Isaac wonders about Allison, and if she’ll hate them, or just _him_. He feels the sense of guilt creep up his throat and he tries to trample on it, squash it for its Scott who’s breathing on his neck and making snuffling noises and curling his chest to Isaac’s back.

He takes a small breath.

Isaac closes his eyes.

He tries to sleep, and _does._

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: multiple minor characters deaths, physical/verbal abuse, alcohol abuse, teen pregnancy, miscarriage, underage sex.
> 
> Do not read if risk of relapsing or panic attacks etc. Be safe, readers.


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